In the Eyes of an Immortal
by Etimire T
Summary: By the twenty-first century, Merlin knows what people will do to get their hands on an immortal and has disguised himself until things die down as a man named John Watson. Sherlock Holmes has dreamed impossible dreams about knights and castles since he was a child. But his dreams are becoming clearer. Is he forgetting something? (Sherlock/Merlin crossover. A series of one-shots.)
1. Chapter 1

This is a crossover that just sort of... happened in my head today. I had to get it on paper, and I hope you enjoy it:) I do not own Sherlock or Merlin... obviously, because if I did, season four would be filming already and Merlin would not have been canceled. That said, here's my short story :D

In the Eyes of an Immortal

By Etimire T.

The memories started in his dreams. As a child, Sherlock ignored them because they were ridiculous.

But once he grew older, the dreams became not _worse_ , necessarily, just more vivid. He would wake up shivering from the cold of a snowy ride through the night with his armor sticking to his skin. He would sweat and gasp and wake up clutching non-existent wounds he acquired in battles

The castle in his dreams was airy and large, bustling with life, and yet, the people were stifled by fear for a reason he could not quite remember. There was a woman there with dark, curly hair and a man who annoyed Sherlock to no end, but he couldn't do without.

And the strangest thing was while he was dreaming Sherlock wasn't himself. Well, that's not true. He _was_ himself, but he looked different. Blonde, not nearly as tall, and always dressed medievally. But it felt… right.

It took years of denial and careful research to identify who he dreamed about. It wasn't possible. It was ridiculous and strange and insane, and if he told anyone, they would throw him in an asylum for sure.

But what does one do when every single night of your life, you relive a moment that you don't remember living? The dreams felt like memories. They were too detailed; too exact to be his imagination.

Sherlock was not interested in history unless it pertained to crime. The stories of King Arthur and the Round Table certainly did not qualify.

So why when he read the stories later on, did his dreams find so many similarities? They were not exact copies, but the basics of the stories were the same.

Well, then there was only one explanation.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and shut down his computer screen.

No. This was ridiculous. It was coincidence; a really unlikely coincidence, but nonetheless, a coincidence.

Unless he came up with more proof, there was nothing Sherlock could do but continue the dream and remember day by day.

MSMSMSMS

Mer- no. His name was John now.

 _John_ stared at his reflection with satisfaction.

Well. He certainly wouldn't draw attention looking like this. Short, fading blonde hair, a cane. But his eyes… Drat it, he could never hide his eyes. They looked as vibrant as the day he first arrived in Camelot hundreds of years ago. It fascinated him, the life that lit his eyes. He was old. His eyes should look old. They didn't. Why?

But no one would look close enough to see his eyes. Surely no one would notice. His disguise would take care of that.

And that was good. After his experience in World War 2, he was quite done being watched. Maybe this time he could disappear for good, fade into the background and no one would ever know.

He even gave himself a typical name. John Watson. No one expected he was anything other than one of the other war veterans living on government compensation.

A funny thing about therapists, his limp wasn't psychosomatic, it was fake. An easy mistake, but a big one and easy enough to pull off on John's part. He certainly had enough baggage to need a therapist, but his pride kept him from taking advantage of her help. She was just a part of his guise anyway. His whole life was a mask to hide who he really was, at least until some of the crazy conspiracy theorists calmed down. It seemed to take much longer than it usually did this time. The theorists were convinced that Camelot was being reborn after he accidentally dropped his guise in public and ended up a prisoner at a government facility. Idiots. Under drugs, he spilled his guts, and a few people caught a whiff of the story.

Not many people believed him; just the crazy ones, which was not necessarily helpful.

So now here he was, hiding in plain sight as John Hamish Watson.

MSMSMSMS

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he met John Watson was the man's eyes. One could almost miss them, hidden behind that careful smile and simple clothing. But it was there; a spark of familiar light that instantly made Sherlock snap up from his work. They shined bright blue, curious and excited, full of dry humor.

Sherlock wondered how someone could keep that much vitality hidden so well.

It took many months of living with John Watson for him to identify the light.

Hope.

But for what?

"Are you… waiting for something?" he asked bluntly one evening.

John's ever-bright eyes flicked from his laptop, and he frowned. "Why would you say that?"

Sherlock shrugged and let himself fall sideways down his armchair so that his knees and neck rested on opposite armrests. He shut his eyes before answering with a shrug. "You're… hoping for something to happen or someone to come… _back_ maybe? I'm not sure... What is it? What are you waiting for?"

John blinked. He was used to the detective's blunt manner, but this question put him on edge. It was far too close to home. Could Sherlock possibly think-? No. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock."

"Uh, huh," came his not-convinced reply, but Sherlock didn't press the issue.

That night Sherlock had another dream. That in itself wasn't unusual. He always dreamed about Camelot. But this time something was different. This time he finally saw the face of the dark-haired man that was always at his side. The man who tried to save his life.

And when Sherlock woke, jumping clumsily out of the armchair that he fell asleep in the night before, he could have sworn he'd seen those eyes before.

He scrambled around the flat, desperate to save the face before it faded away. Sherlock didn't consider himself to be an exceptional artist, but he could get by. Drawing anatomy year after year honed his skill. Hastily, he grabbed a pencil and paper at random and sat down in the middle of the floor. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and brought the man's face to view.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock's pencil scratched against the paper and within ten minutes, he sketched a rather accurate drawing of what he saw. He stared at the man he had drawn, just a boy, really. He had dark, messy hair and high cheekbones that distantly resembled Sherlock's, but the boy's sunny smile put that comparison to an end.

And his eyes… he had such bright, hopeful, vibrant eyes. Sherlock knew those eyes. It was like he saw them every day of his life...

What was the boy's name? Sherlock racked his brain, hardly noticing John making his way to the kitchen. John yawned and grunted at the moldy coffee grounds in the coffee maker.

Sherlock noticed but he did not let this distract him.

If he was dreaming about Arthur, then who could the boy be? A servant of some sort? He was dressed as such. But the emotion that followed him... the boy seemed to mean much more to him than a mere servant would.

The boy was Arthur's friend. Who was Arthur's friend in the stories?

Sherlock frowned and stood swiftly as the answer arose. "But he's not old!" he exclaimed loudly, almost arguing with himself. "He's always old in the stories!"

John frowned from the kitchen. "What the heck are you going on about?" He knocked the bad coffee grounds into the trash can and sighed. "Would it kill you to put on a pot every so often?"

Sherlock only barely listened. He shot his reply before melting back into his thoughts. "Why should I? That's what I have you for."

For a reason Sherlock could not comprehend, John chuckled. "You remind me of someone I used to know."

"Fascinating," Sherlock answered in a tone that implied he thought the opposite.

"Yup," John nodded and wrinkled his nose at whatever was growing in his cup. "He was a dollophead as well."

That finally caught Sherlock's attention enough to draw him away from his musings. " _Dollophead_ isn't a word."

"Oh, really."

"Yes."

"Well…" John turned toward him and shrugged. "I say it's a word, so it is."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mildly annoyed. "You can't just _make up_ a word."

"Why not?" John smirked lightly. "Shakespeare made up words, didn't he?"

Now Sherlock finally turned to glare at John. "You're not Shakespeare."

"True," John shrugged, "I'm even cooler."

"Really. How so?"

John shrugged and looked as if he would reply but then he shrunk a bit into himself and turned away. "Oh, whatever." He frowned at the coffee pot and changed the subject. "Just... Sherlock? I can deal with you experimenting with the coffee pot but if you so much as _touch_ the _tea_ pot-"

"-You'll do something extremely unpleasant," Sherlock finished with an eye roll. He collapsed on the couch, successfully distracted from his strange dreams. He waved John away. "Go to work, John. And bring home an interesting murder case if you come across one…"

John snorted and tied his shoes. "Yeah, whatever. I'll certainly do so because it's completely _normal_ to just 'come across' a murder case…"

"Now you're getting it."

John made a noise that insisted that he didn't.

But that night he came home shouting about Lestrade trying to get a hold of them and _do you ever answer your phone, you idiot?!_

MSMSMSMS

John found it quite difficult to strip magic away from his life. It was a part of him, instinctual like breathing. He was used to using it almost constantly. However, he soon found that living with Sherlock Holmes meant he had to be very careful.

Yet, despite his discipline, there were a few times that habit won out.

"John?"Sherlock shouted from the kitchen, "I thought the sink was broken!"

John froze. "It is."

"Hmm…" John clearly heard the detective turn the water on and off. "No, it's not." There was a moment of silence and then, "Wow. The water tastes great."

Silently, John closed his eyes and cursed his absentmindedness. That morning he placed a hand on the faucet handle and seeing that it was broken, his eyes flashed and instantly crystal-clear water flowed from the spout. It was instinctual and require no effort on his part, but now the sink was fixed with no apparent reason to be so. He stood and walked to the kitchen. "Weird," he said, "Maybe it worked itself out."

Sherlock nodded slowly and glanced at John, but as far and John could tell, he didn't notice anything odd about his flatmate's behavior.

 _That was close,_ John thought. He needed to be more careful.

MSMSMSMS

There were other times that it became necessary for John to use magic to save his and Sherlock's hides.

Their feet pounded on the asphalt as they rounded the corner, panting, covered in dirt and soaking wet. "You _had_ to provoke them!" John hissed.

"I was using a very tactical technique-"

"Oh, shut up. We need to hide." Quickly John tugged Sherlock underneath one of the cars in the parking lot. They lay flat on their backs, side by side.

"You," Sherlock started, "have done this before."

"I was a soldier, Sherlock."

That was true. Almost. He _did_ fight in Afghanistan, but not as a soldier. He helped the British troops from the shadows.

Their current situation drew very many similarities to the situations him and Arthur used to find themselves in, John noted. A part of him ached, hoping Arthur wouldn't feel betrayed that he found a real friend for the first time since Arthur had died. Actually, he had not been this close to anyone since Arthur.

This realization startled John, but at the same time, there was a feeling of rightness that made John smile wistfully. He really did enjoy danger, despite his cautious ways, and he really did enjoy friendship. How did he forget what it was like?

But right now was not a time to wonder. The thugs would be here any moment, and they would beat the crap out of them unless he did something.

Turning his head to the side, away from Sherlock, John waited for the tattooed men to round the corner. With a flash of his eyes, John caused all the men to stumble on non-existent wires and then planted the sound of running feet in their ears. They stood quickly, disoriented.

"I heard footsteps over there!" one man shouted, pointing away from John and Sherlock.

"So did I!"

And with that, they took off running, leaving Sherlock and John free to dash from the scene and point the gang out to the nearest police officer.

That night John sat on the countertop at Bakers Street, absently eating Chinese take-out.

Sherlock was in the living room, typing away on John's laptop.

"You're not planting a virus on it again, are you?" John asked, "Because that was _not_ cool."

Sherlock snorted, but for once didn't take the bait. "Look here," He pointed at the screen.

John hopped down from his perch and leaned over Sherlock's shoulder.

His gut clenched nervously. "Is that a security camera?"

"Uh, huh," Sherlock answered. "The parking garage has three set up. I hacked into one and look at this…" He pressed play and John watched with apprehension.

In the video, the blurry forms of Sherlock and John dashed across the parking lot and they hid beneath an SUV. Seconds later, the dozen or so thugs rounded the corner and Sherlock paused the video.

"I'm going to slow it down," he said, "Watch."

Simultaneously, all of the men jerked to a stop and fell in slow motion to the floor. John shrugged. "They tripped. Lucky for us. Maybe there was a wire."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, we ran right through without falling. And look, see the man in _front_ of the others? When he falls, so do the others. That wouldn't happen if there were a wire. They would all trip at the _same spot_ if they were stupid enough to keep running."

Shrugging, John rubbed his eyes and turned away. "I don't know, Sherlock. We were lucky. Does it really matter how the men tripped?"

"Yes," Sherlock clipped, frowning. "Yes, it does."

John groaned, hiding his nervousness. "Whatever. I'm going to bed."

That night, Sherlock stayed up late, watching the video over and over again. He was certain he saw something like this before. In his dreams maybe?

Yes. Definitely. Weird stuff like this happened all the time in his dreams. And wasn't it the dark haired boy who caused it? Strange…

MSMSMSMS

John knew he was probably the most powerful person on the planet at any given time, but he was human and humans are fallible. He made mistakes. He grew tired and needed sleep occasionally.

After a long day at the office, he was more that exhausted. He was undone.

John was a good doctor. He healed his patients problems more often with magic than medicine, but he also was a master at the medical trade. When he could, he eased the pain of minor injuries or tweaked something just slightly to make recovery easier, but he also knew how to diagnose and treat a patient using the more... conventional methods.

However, after dealing with particularly irritating patients and guiding the hands of three surgeons from another room, John felt like collapsing right on the doorstep and sleeping for three years straight. He clomped up the stairs and practically fell into the flat he shared with Sherlock.

And of bloody course. Sherlock was playing his violin. Admittedly, he played it quite well. But John was not in the mood for noise. Or bright lights. Or breathing, for that matter.

"Do you have any idea how _irritating_ **(1)** hypochondriacs are?" he spat upon entering, not really expecting a response.

"More irritating than I am?" Sherlock answered.

John opened his mouth and then closed it. "Well, on second thought, no. You are far more irritating. But hypochondriacs are close runner-ups."

Sherlock snorted, seemingly pleased that John still considered him more annoying than anyone else.

Sighing tiredly, John made his way to his bedroom. "I'm gonna take a nap. Don't burn the house down or something."

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

John stuck head head back around the corner to give him an irritated look. "I don't know, Sherlock. Why do you put toenails in the jam?"

"That was an experiment."

"Of course it was…"

Without any further comment, John stomped away and fell into his bedroom. He needed a nap. Now. Quickly he stuck his head out the door, intending to tell Sherlock to shut his violin up, but realized that the detective already put it away and was busy messing with a sketch book.

Huh. So he _did_ know not to play when John was sleeping.

Wait. That meant he _chose_ to play at three in the morning, that son of a-

John stopped himself.

Whatever. He was too tired to be angry with the detective right now.

Closing the door and locking it behind him, John closed the curtains and for the first time in several months, let the guise drop from his shoulders.

The effort it took to keep up the magic was not extensive, but doing it constantly for such a long period of time took its tole. Rolling his shoulders, Merlin took a deep breath and fell down backwards on the bed, relishing feeling like himself again.

"Oh, that's great," he murmured, stretching. Curiously, he inspected his hands, pale and long-fingered, not weathered and strong the way John's hands were. Man, he forgot how good it felt to be in his body again.

Merlin knew he was taking a risk, exposing himself this way, but he wouldn't stay this way for long. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. Just a few minutes longer and then he'd put the guise back on…

Just… a… minute… more…

Merlin didn't notice when he dropped off to sleep.

MSMSMSMS

Sherlock wasn't sure why he looked up when he did. He was busy sketching out the latest scene from his dreams.

A young woman, her hair ratty and her clothes torn, smirked at him from a throne. Along with the woman's face came feelings of regret and betrayal and guilt and deep sadness. Why did she hate him so much?

All at once, Sherlock dropped the sketch book onto the table and frowned. Something was… different. He wasn't sure what, but Sherlock was certain that something changed in the air around him.

Slowly he stood. Was this apprehension he felt? Sort of. He couldn't identify it.

Quickly but quietly, Sherlock crossed the room and made for John's bedroom. Was it that John left and he only just noticed? Was that why he felt the way he did? Sherlock needed to be sure.

Without much thought, he tried the door and frowned when it jiggled but remained stubbornly solid. Locked. That was an easy fix. If John was sleeping inside, he'd just pick the lock and avoid waking him at all.

It took three paperclips and a matter of seconds for Sherlock to open the lock. He pulled opened the door and walked in quietly only to stop dead in his tracks.

On the bed, tangled in the blankets, lay a familiar form. His dark hair was longer than Sherlock remembered and exhaustion plagued the adolescent even as he slept, but it was definitely him.

Skinny and pale as death. High cheekbones, half a smile.

"Merlin," Sherlock whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

This wasn't possible. This couldn't be happening.

And where _the heck_ was _John?_

Merlin shifted in his sleep and Sherlock darted out of the room, heart pounding.

Right. That was just a trick of the light. A trick made by his sleep deprived mind. When he went back in John would be lying-

"Sherlock?" said a sleepy voice that was _not_ John's. "Was that you?"

Slowly, Sherlock pulled into the room once more. Staring apprehensively at the boy, he waited for the boy to realize he was being watched.

Blinking wearily, Merlin rubbed his eyes and yawned. All at once he froze, and his gaze shot up to Sherlock's. His eyes widened, and he gulped. "Uh, sorry," he said, "Climbed through the wrong window." He adopted a sheepish smile. "Look, if my parents realize I broke curfew they would _kill_ me. I'll just…" He stood quickly and moved toward the window. Sure enough, the window was open just a crack. Wasn't it locked a moment before?

Quickly, Sherlock moved forward and Merlin stopped. "Aw, come on, man," he begged, the perfect image of a naughty teenager. "Just let me go. I promise I won't ever bother you again."

Sherlock almost believed him. _Almost_. The boy certainly was clever.

If he hadn't heard Merlin call him by name a moment ago, he would be satisfied that the boy really was a stranger. But he couldn't be. He knew that Sherlock Holmes lived in this house and it sounded as if he knew him well.

And… he wore John's clothes.

This realization sent a shock of electricity through the detective. Sherlock shook his head rapidly, gulping. "No," he whispered, "No. It's not possible."

Merlin blinked, confused. "What?"

Shivering, Sherlock planted a hand on the wall. Merlin was sleeping in _John's_ bed, wearing _John's_ clothes.

And he had John's eyes.

They were the _same eyes_.

"John?" Sherlock croaked. It was him. Somehow, this boy was John. Sherlock was certain.

Instantly Merlin's face paled. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. "John?" he asked, "Who's John?"

"Oh gods," Sherlock breathed, "It's you," Sherlock hardly believed his words. "John. _You're_ the warlock. How could I be so stupid!"

Merlin turned fully toward Sherlock and cocked his head. Complete shock and incomprehension showed all over his face, shining within his deep blue eyes. "How-?" he started. "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course I know who you are!" Sherlock replied sharply. " I've only dreamed about you for _years_! But I thought you were just a- just a figment of my imagination!"

Merlin stood so still, he could have turned to stone. "What?" he said slowly.

Sherlock felt frozen as well. This was proof. Finally, proof that he wasn't crazy; that his dreams were real, to some extent. But the alternative to insanity… was not much better.

"Merlin… or _Emrys_ if you prefer. Bloody-" Sherlock stopped himself and hissed, rubbing his eyes as a sudden stab of pain eclipsed his vision.

Instantly Merlin stood at his side. "Sherlock? Sherlock what's wrong?"

"I'm… f-fine," he ground out.

And a moment later, he was. He stared in wonder at Merlin once more. "Jeeze. Of _course_ you're John. You have the same eyes. I knew I'd seen them before."

Merlin held up a hand, slowing down Sherlock's words. "Wait- wait a sec. I don't understand. How do you know who I am?"

Sherlock just shook his head and all at once stumbled backwards and out of the room. His brain felt like it was turning to mush and his mind palace rearranged against his will.

He made it to the kitchen, Merlin running after him shouting his name, before Sherlock collapsed on the floor. He grabbed his head and growled. "W-what's wrong?" he hissed. The pain was like a million little needles sticking into his temples all at once.

Merlin knelt next to him and grabbed his hand. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock did, but this only resulted instantly in another stab of pain. Thousands of memories poured into his head all at once and it bloody _hurt_.

"No. No, Sherlock, you have to keep looking at me."

That wasn't Merlin's voice.

Instantly Sherlock flickered open his eyes and met John's gaze. John smiled kindly, but his concern was blatantly obvious. "I'm not sure what's happening, Sherlock, but just wait a minute. I'll try to make this easier on you." Gently, John placed a hand over Sherlock's eyes. Immediately, Sherlock felt lulled into unconsciousness and he welcomed it gratefully.

MSMSMSMS

Sherlock woke up hours later feeling surprising alright. His headache was gone and he felt strangely… light.

And yet, something was different. It took him only a moment or to to identify it. His entire mind palace was rearranged, but not in a way he disliked. There were now two distinct and very separate wings.

In one wing were all the memories of the entire life he led now, being a detective, living with John, bickering with Mycroft, but in the other were new memories that he was only tentatively familiar with. However, after browsing the shelves for a moment, he was overcome with a sense of rightness that he couldn't quite understand. How on Earth did he forget about all of this?

Training with his father. Learning how to be diplomatic. Fighting a dragon. Leading his country. Fighting _battles_ , for heaven's sake!

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sat up suddenly, scaring the wits out of John, who sat in a chair at his bedside, browsing Sherlock's sketchbook. When Sherlock jumped awake, he started, dropping the book on the floor.

Sherlock blinked at him and for a moment both men just stared at each other.

"I believe it's considered rude to flip through other's private things," Sherlock said bluntly.

John let out a shaky breath, obviously relieved that he was awake. He looked Sherlock up and down. "Sorry." John paused and then continued. "Are you feeling alright?"

Slowly, Sherlock pulled his legs to the side of the bed. "Actually," he murmured, "I feel great. What'd you give me?"

"Magic."

Sherlock opened his mouth and then stopped as John's reply sunk in. He frowned thoughtfully. "If I didn't happen to have a boatload of new memories in my head, I would be very tempted to think that I was drugged a bit back." He studied John carefully. "In the bedroom? Did that really happen?"

Slowly, John exhaled, his eyes unreadable. "Yeah. Yeah it did."

Sherlock's eyes fell to the floor. "How?"

"I can show you, if you like."

Instantly Sherlock's eyes jerked back up to John. "Do it."

John nodded and then, sitting in that chair, notebook now in hand, John changed. His hair darkened, his facial structure shifted into that of a young man's, and within three seconds time, an entirely different person sat in the room. Long and lanky, pale and mischievous. Merlin. There was no denying it.

Sherlock knew him instantly but said nothing, too shocked to come up with a reply. "I-" he started. He coughed, and continued. "I take it that this is your true appearance?"

"What makes you think that?" The boy's voice was soft, almost guilty.

Sherlock looked straight into his eyes as he replied. "Because this is how I remember you."

Merlin frowned, confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was so _slow_. "Really, Merlin, you are no smarter than I remember you being."

Merlin still wasn't getting it. "I don't-" All at once, realization dawned in Merlin's eyes. He sat back quickly, apprehensive. "You're not-?"

Sherlock nodded. "I am." He cocked his head. "Well, sort of. I don't blame you for not recognizing me. Up until a few minutes ago even _I_ didn't recognize me." He frowned. "That is the strangest sentence I have ever said."

Merlin just blinked. "Is it... is it really you? _Arthur_?"

Sherlock smirked. " Now you've got it. Hello, Merlin. The world is a strange place, isn't it?"

Merlin let out a shocked, relieved, disbelieving burst of laughter and grinned. "Yeah. Yeah it is."

Together, sitting in the living room of 221B Baker Street, the two legends spoke long into the night. There were many questions and only a few answers, but for now that was alright. For now, being alive together again was all they desired. They could deal with what came later when the time arrived.

 ** _AN: Thanks for reading folks! I hope you enjoyed it. I MAY make another one-shot related to this story, but I'm not sure yet. Just mark my profile and wait a bit if you want some more:) Please leave me a review, I really appreciate it!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_AN: I couldn't help myself. There needed to be more story._**

Guinevere. She was all he could think about sometimes. She and all this blasted sentiment, and it was killing him.

Sherlock was suddenly glad he knew how to distance himself from his emotions. Most of the time he tucked Arthur's memories of her into a tiny corner of his mind so that he could function.

But no one's can be perfect all the time. Even Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes the door would come unlocked, and he'd find himself unable to close it against the gale of sorrow that emitted.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" That was Lestrade, probably. He didn't care. He needed to think of something else. _Anything_ else besides Guinevere and how long she had laid in the grave. She lived her life alone and-

No. Think about something else.

The body. Yes, think about the body. But the woman on the floor, (murdered by her ex-husband) looked just like Gwen. Actually, that wasn't true. There was a vague resemblance.

But apparently that was enough.

Right. Think about something else.

John. Think about John.

"Sherlock? Sherlock look at me. Open your eyes."

Sherlock wouldn't open them. He wouldn't because then he would see the woman on the floor and _drat these atrocious emotions._ "Look at me, Arthur," John whispered.

Sherlock shivered and opened his eyes. John stood in front of him, blocking the woman from his sight. "This is insufferable," Sherlock muttered. He spun away and faced the window. It was raining. John did not touch him, but Sherlock could feel him at his side. Lestrade was across the room, watching them in confusion.

He needed to pretend he was fine. Like he always did. Quickly, Sherlock scrubbed his face. "Um, yes. Right. Back to work." He turned slowly and kept his gaze on the space behind the body. "She was murdered at three AM last night. Her smudged lipstick suggests she either tried to rub it off, or someone kissed her messily. Could be both. Her ex-husband came in through the front door. She attempted to flee. Not fast enough. He caught her, and she fell against the edge of the table. Accidental death."

Lestrade blinked. "Uh, huh."

A clock ticked, counting out the long seconds.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade finally spoke. "What just happened? You wouldn't respond for like ten minutes. I had to call John in from work."

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "Obviously. If you hadn't called him, he wouldn't be here." Quickly, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and made for the door, leaving Lestrade with absolutely no answers. Sherlock prided himself on his ability to evade questions. "Come along, John."

John frowned, concerned, but he followed him out the door.

They were silent until they shut themselves in the cab. The door slammed, and Sherlock slumped against the seat, looking at everything but John.

He remembered sharply the exact words John had said when Sherlock first asked about her.

" _Sherlock… It's the twenty-first century. Guinevere has been gone for… a long time."_

Suddenly John shifted in his seat. "Talk. Now. What's wrong?"

"You don't get to order me about." Sherlock muttered automatically. "That's my job."

John's lips twitched up, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize why. Some several hundred years, Arthur Pendragon had said much the same thing. On many occasions, if his memory served him. Mildly irritated, Sherlock continued staring icily at the seat in front of him.

"It's strange when you do that," John murmured with a careful smile, "Saying things you used to say."

 _Yeah? Well, your_ face _is strange._ But Sherlock didn't voice that thought. It was childish. He couldn't come up with a proper reply at the moment, so he remained silent. The car felt too tight, too small, too hot to say inside. He leaned forward and addressed the driver. "Just stop here. I'm getting out."

"Really? Are you-?"

"Just stop," he snapped.

The cabbie shrugged and pulled to the side of the road. They were outside of London, and the empty, rolling hills surrounding them held little attraction. Sherlock didn't care. He'd walk the rest of the way as long as he didn't have to be in this bloody carriage-

Car.

It was a car. Not a horseless carriage fueled by magic, as the part of him that was Arthur insisted. He began taking a dislike to Arthur's antiquated, _sentimental_ opinion about everything once it started interfering with the way he thought.

John didn't attempt to stop Sherlock from leaving. He didn't appear to want to follow him into the rain. Good.

However, Sherlock leaned down once he was outside, and addressed him firmly through the window. "Don't come after me."

John rolled his eyes and turned away.

Only halfway satisfied, Sherlock shut the door and watched the cab disappear behind a hill. He sighed and pulled his cloak _(no, it's called a coat)_ closer to himself.

Deciding he did not want to begin the long walk home yet, Sherlock moved away from the road so that he was hidden from view and then sat down in the wet, brown and green grass. Resting his elbows on his knees, he stared sightlessly at the moor. It was beautiful in a desolate, wild way. Large crags of black rock embedded in the grass like tombstones and the wind-filled rain brushed the hills with a quiet intensity.

His body was soaked through, but Sherlock didn't care. It distracted him from everything.

 _Camelot, Merlin, Gias._

 _Dragons, magic, knights._

 _Battles, swords, Morgana._

 _Guinevere._

"Oh gods, _Guinevere_ ," he breathed down his coat. He hated this; all the emotion that came with her name. On principle, he shied away from strong feelings of any sort. But he couldn't get away from this. It was a part of Arthur. A part of _them_.

A moment later, the air shifted ever so slightly behind Sherlock. Someone stumbled. A soft curse.

Sherlock sighed. Of course, he wouldn't stay away. "Did you bother paying the taxi before teleporting here?"

"Ha. You're one to talk. Have you _ever_ paid a taxi?" It wasn't John's voice, but the sound was equally familiar. Slowly, Merlin came up next to him and sat down. Instantly the rain moved away from them as if Merlin was holding an invisible umbrella.

"You're doing something to the rain, John."

Merlin looked up in surprise. "Indeed." The rain fell on them once more. The water was warm, but Sherlock didn't mention it. Good enough. "There isn't anything you can say to make this any better, Merlin, John, whoever you are, so don't try"

"I wasn't planning on it."

So they sat there, silently, the rain dribbling warmly down their necks, until the sun reached her final hour. Too bad the clouds kept them from seeing the sunset. In a place like this, it would have been stunning.

Suddenly Sherlock spoke. "Why'd you drop the guise?"

Shrugging, Merlin picked at the grass in front of him. "I was tired. Besides, it's annoying doing two spells at once. Teleporting and keeping on the guise."

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. Merlin cast him a wary glance. "If it bothers you I could... I mean-"

"No." Sherlock still did not look at him. "It's fine. It's all… fine. Just, it's strange, you being you and then not you at the same time."

"I could say the same about you."

Now Sherlock's eyes flicked to him. He smiled wearily. "Yeah."

For a moment neither man said a word, but then Sherlock stood. "We should get home." He cast a tired eye down the road. Nope. There was no way he could walk all the way back to London.

With a small smile, Merlin stood and extended his hand. "I could take us home. I mean, if you'd like." He looked sheepishly up at Sherlock, as if he was afraid he would lash out.

Sherlock blinked. His friend looked fragile and young. Like a little bird. His clothes stuck to his wiry frame and his black hair was pushed messily out of his face. To think, this man was the most powerful person on the planet. It defied all logic.

For a moment he wanted to refuse. He wanted to push his friend away and bury himself in his grief. Right now everything hurt and he couldn't stop it.

Merlin sighed and put his hand down. "It does get easier, you know."

It was eerie the way the boy seemed to know exactly what was going on his mind.

"I mean, it still hurts. It always hurts. But… it does get easier after some time."

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. He knew this. He knew the pain would ebb eventually. It would never leave completely, but that was alright. There was a part of Sherlock that wanted the pain. Guinevere deserved to be grieved over.

However, despite his snowy demeanor, he would rather not live with that pain all alone. Gulping, he held out his damp hand, palm up. "Alright then, warlock. Bring us to Bakers Street."

Merlin smiled, surprised, and it seemed the sun shined a bit brighter through the clouds. "Really?"

Rolling his eyes in feigned irritation, Sherlock shook his hand. "Yes, _really_! Come on then!"

A moment later, Sherlock sat down in 221B Bakers St. He was dry and John lazily heated up a cup of tea. He didn't appear to need a teapot. Or a stove. Or any appliance for that matter. He simply wrapped his hands around it and the tea warmed automatically.

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhausted from the battering his thoughts had given him. However, he was suddenly glad that John was sitting there across from him. He was strong. Stronger that Sherlock feared he would ever be.

Not that he would ever tell that to John.

Yes, Sherlock thought, eventually things would get better.

But he would be careful to remember, before anything got better, it always grew worse.

 _ **Leave me a review if you enjoyed this. ****Thanks for reading guys! I'm not sure how many more of these there will be, but they will all be connected in a loose chronological order.** **Leave me a review please:)**_


	3. Chapter 3

"You smug little Dalek, move out of my way." John scowled at Sherlock. "And stop grinning like that. It's creepy."

With a shrug, Sherlock shifted so that John could get to the kitchen cupboard and then Sherlock turned back to his microscope. After a moment, his gaze snuck up from the bacteria he was studying to the much more interesting specimen before him.

John stared into the cupboard and sighed. "Were you up all night?" he asked detachedly.

"What's a 'Dalek'?" Sherlock replied instead, avoiding that particular question as usual.

John turned and blinked at the detective, successfully distracted. "You _are_ British, aren't you?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Trust me, it is extremely relevant." He cocked his head, wondering how to explain. "It's a…" he started, "You know, a thing from the show. They're like little pepper pots with eye stalks and…" He trailed off, seeing Sherlock's expression. It was a look that said exactly _do you seriously think that I, mastermind detective, have time to watch silly shows on the telly?_

John sighed. "You know what? Never mind." He continued staring up into the cupboard, a sort of despairing look in his eyes. Why couldn't Sherlock do the shopping just once in his life? Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Sherlock watching him instead of the creature under his microscope. He rolled his eyes and waited for Sherlock to speak.

Sherlock did, eventually. "…Didn't know warlocks catch colds," he murmured in his low baritone.

"Didn't know you gave a crap." John muttered back, irritated by nothing in particular. His comeback lost venom when he dissolved into several sneezes. After he finally came up for air, he turned away from the cupboard dully. Wishing that it was full of food wasn't doing him any good. The cupboard was empty. Of course it was ruddy empty. It beyond, no, _beneath_ Sherlock to go shopping.

"Reincarnation may have done wonders for your intellect, Sherlock, but it's done nothing for your manners."

An eyebrow raised, Sherlock peeked up from his experiment once more. "What did I do now?"

"Exactly. See? You don't even know." John shook his head, yawned and padded past Sherlock again. There were many things Sherlock Holmes could do, but deciding to pick up food on his way home was not one of them.

John rubbed his eyes, pinching between them. He _really_ didn't want to go to work today. "It's Saturday, right?" he asked. He didn't work on Saturdays.

"I have temporal-dysplasia," came Sherlock's reply. "How should I know?"

John cast him a dull-eyed glare. "First of all, if that was a thing, that's not how it would work. Second, it's not a thing, so it doesn't matter."

"How would _you_ know?"

"Maybe because I'm a _doctor_?"

Instead of replying, Sherlock took out his phone and glanced at it. "Yes, Saturday."

Shaking his head, John turned away. "Well then, I'll not bother calling in sick." He yawned again and moved to the living room. He didn't try to look in the fridge for food. There was probably something disgusting in there anyway. Body parts in the fridge were great appetite killers. Maybe Mycroft could try that. It might help him keep on his diet. John smirked at the thought. Mycroft wasn't even overweight, but it was quite hilarious to watch Sherlock jab him about the one issue the iceman seemed at least a bit sensitive about.

John rubbed his eye blearily. His skin itched. He was only barely holding his guise on and he was too tired to do more. After a third yawn on John's part, Sherlock finally sighed.

"Just drop it if it's draining you, John."

John fell backwards into his chair and raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"If I wasn't fine with you doing so, would I have suggested it?"

"I guess not." John scratched his head and glanced at door. He really did need to do the shopping, but the guise made this cold much worse than it would be if he wasn't using magic. Giving in, John relaxed into his armchair and at the same time allowed the magic holding his appearance together to drop. After a moment, Merlin breathed in and out, the rattle in his chest quieter than it was before. He could cure himself of all sorts of deadly illnesses, but some reason, curing a cold was extremely complex, more so than most sicknesses. If he took the time, he could probably cure himself of the cold with magic, but the effort to do so would make him sick and that rather defeated the purpose of the magic anyway. It was irritating but could be dealt with.

He stood slowly and stretched, ignoring Sherlock's blatant stare. The detective was always disconcerted by Merlin's face at first. Perhaps it was the memories that his appearance drug up, Merlin guessed. Anyhow, Merlin was used to it and proceeded to his room to find clothes that fit him better. John was thicker and shorter than the warlock, but Merlin had a drawer filled with clothes his size that he could use in situations like this. He pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie and proceeded to the door. "Right," he said with a sniff, "Do I look normal enough?"

Sherlock had moved to the couch and was busy making notes about his bacteria on a pad of paper. He glanced up and shrugged. "Your ears could use a bit of adjusting, but-"

"You know what I mean." Merlin opened the door, rubbed his stuffy nose, and started down the stairs, assuming that Sherlock's reply meant that yes, he didn't look like he felt like crap (which he did).

"Keep your phone on," Sherlock called after him.

"I'm not rushing home because you need something stupid."

"Mycroft asked about you last time I saw him and it wouldn't surprise me if he tried to pick you up."

Merlin raised an eyebrow and stopped his descent. "You mean _me_?" he called back. "He was asking about _me_ , me?"

"You, you." Sherlock replied with slight humor.

His attention grabbed, Merlin plodded back up the stairs and poked his head back into the flat. "He doesn't-?" He left the sentence dangling.

"-Suspect?" Sherlock finished. "I doubt it. He's seen you a few times in my presence." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Putting down the notepad, he laid back on the couch and sprawled out like a cat. When Merlin first met Sherlock, he would have found that odd, but now he didn't even blink. "And he's an overprotective prat," he finished with a yawn.

Slowly, Merlin nodded. "Alright. I'll keep the phone on. If I text you anything at all, assume it means you should trace the call and come after me."

"I'd already planned too. It's better to get this over with anyhow."

Deciding that getting tea was worth the risk, Merlin nodded and hopped down the stairs, remembering his headache only when he hit the bottom step. He hissed in pain and rubbed his eyes. He hated being incapacitated. It didn't happen often, which made the rare occasions all the more annoying. Moving to open the front door, he was stopped by a soft exclamation.

"Oh! Hello dear." Mrs. Hudson bubbled. She stood in the doorway to her kitchen with her little eyes wide with question, not worry. "I didn't realize Sherlock had a client."

Merlin turned slowly and managed to pull a gentle smile to his lips. "Actually…" He fumbled for a moment. He needed a simple, but stable lie. "I'm John's nephew," he decided. "I need a place to stay for a bit, so John said I could sleep on the couch in the flat."

Mrs. Hudson nodded agreeably, buying the lie without a thought. "That's nice of him. I hope Sherlock's not giving you a hard time. He can be a bit…" She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, you know."

Merlin chuckled. Lying came easy. He had more than enough practice. "Apparently John agreed to let Sherlock do some sort of experiment on him if he didn't complain."

"Oh really?" Mrs. Hudson moved back into the kitchen, where she'd been doing dishes, and she looked back at him through her open door. "That's sounds like those two, it does." She looked down at her work and then back at Merlin. "Well, it was very nice to meet you, sweetheart. I… I don't think I caught your name."

"Morgan," Merlin supplied easily.

"Well, Morgan, I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. If you need a cuppa, I'm down here. 221A."

Merlin smiled and stepped out of the door. How interesting that she would constantly insist that she wasn't John and Sherlock's housemaid, and yet, for a soul that looked just past childhood, she was more than willing to supply food. Tucking his hands in his pockets, Merlin sniffed and continued down the road. It was almost disconcerting how much appearance changed the way people treated a person.

MSMSMSMSMSMSMS

Sherlock knew it was Mrs. Hudson at the door of the flat before she opened it. It had been a half hour or so since John had left, going by the clock on the wall. Mrs. Hudson's quiet, hesitant footsteps gave her away.

"What is it?" he growled.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't concerned by his tone. She came in with a smile. "I met Morgan. Didn't know John had a nephew."

Sherlock frowned and opened his eyes. He considered her words over his steepled fingers. "Who?" he murmured.

"Morgan?" Mrs. Hudson huffed when he failed to respond. "Such a strange thing, you are. He's a sweet boy, dark hair, and a shy sort of smile. He said he's been sleeping on the couch. You can't have been _that_ far in that head of yours not to notice..."

Sherlock took a quick breath in. Oh.

Oh, clever John. Clever, clever John. Sherlock shrugged. "Yes. Right. _That_ Morgan. He's so small I nearly deleted him."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, hands on her fragile hips. "Don't you go traumatizing that boy, Sherlock. He seems very kind. I'd hate to see you deflect him."

The _like you do almost everyone else_ went unsaid, but Sherlock heard it anyway. He nodded slowly. "Is that all?" His phone buzzed and Sherlock's gaze caught it like a shark.

"No, but there was also a message from your brother on my answering machine…" Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes were on the phone. He picked it up. _Mycroft, you son of a-_

"-It seems you weren't answering his calls…" Mrs. Hudson's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Sherlock stood abruptly. "Thank you for the update Mrs. Hudson."

"But Sherlock-"

He slid past her and grabbed his coat. A scowl furrowed deeply in his face. "You can tell Mycroft that what's mine is _mine_ and not his for the keeping."

"Sherlock?"

But Sherlock was already out the door. He'd call that one taxi, the guy who didn't ask questions…

Standing on the curb, he texted Merlin back.

 _I'm coming._

SMSMSMSMSMSM

Merlin wasn't surprised in the least when the black limo scooted up next to him as he walked home. He sighed and looked down at the groceries in his hands. It was a futile effort from the beginning, he decided.

"Leave the bags," a smooth, detached voice said. Merlin glanced around him, wondering. He couldn't identify where the voice came from. A hidden speaker?

"And get in the car. Please."

Merlin frowned. Mycroft never said please. Still unsure, Merlin dropped the bags. He reassured himself quickly. Mycroft would act intimidating, and he'd have to pretend to be intimidated to keep in character. In an hour, he told himself, he'd be back at Bakers street with a cup of tea and a smirk. Slowly, Merlin opened the car door and scooted inside. The car slid from the curb and there was Angela, pointedly disinterested, sitting across from him just like before. Merlin cocked his head and studied her for a moment. He hadn't meant to pick up her real name when he asked for it the first time he was 'kidnapped' by Mycroft, but her thoughts were oddly loud and he knew the truth without trying to find it.

"Hey"

"…Hey?"

"I'm Morgan," he said with an easy smile. "What's your name?"

Angela looked him up and down critically, and then a soft smile filled her mouth. Again, his apparent age had a factor in the reaction he received. "I'm-"

"Wait, no," he interrupted her quickly, "Let me guess… It starts with an 'L', right? Lauren? Lacey? Something like that?"

Angela's eyes widened. She covered her shock gracefully and quickly, but not quickly enough. Merlin smirked.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

Angela cocked her head. "You're a clever kid. I'll give you that."

Merlin shrugged modestly. "I've got a knack for names."

With a chuckle. Angela turned back to her phone.

Following suit, Merlin took out his own phone and considered texting Sherlock. At the moment there was no real need. Perhaps the 'please' was a momentary slip up. Or maybe Mycroft was being nice because he thought Merlin was young and he didn't want to scare him. But wasn't the whole purpose of this ordeal to scare him? All the same, the 'please' worried him.

"Given that you are in the car and dropped the bags as I directed," the same detached voice sounded around Merlin, "it is impossible to deny that you can hear me."

Merlin stilled.

What?

A sinking feeling pulling him deeper in his seat. He glanced at Angela but she didn't appear to notice the voice.

Where was the voice coming from?

"The funny thing about mind reading is that one does not have to have a... unique ability in order to have their thoughts _read_." the voice continued, "They just have to make their thoughts louder and more concentrated than anyone else's thoughts. In theory, extremely intense thoughts would catch the attention of a mind reader, or a _warlock_ for instance, within seconds, yes?"

Oh. This was bad. Very, very bad.

He'd been an idiot. How many times did he tell himself not to become overconfident? And yet here he was, doing it again.

"Don't try to talk back." the voice continued, "I can't hear you. The thing is… I have been waiting a very long time to meet you so if you wouldn't mind giving me a moment, I would be much obliged."

Now that was even scarier. Mycroft, (he assumed it must be Mycroft) was _asking_ if they could talk? The car slid to a stop in front of a large estate and Angela raised her eyebrows, her equivalent of "get out".

His steps reluctant, Merlin stepped out of the car and soon stood before the massive front door. Were they made so large in order to intimidate those stepping inside, Merlin wondered? Intentional or not, it worked.

Then Merlin shook himself. Whatever he walked into would be nothing he hadn't faced before. He was smart and he had Sherlock on his side. With that thought, Merlin withdrew his phone and sent a quick text to Sherlock.

 _MYCROFT KNOWS_.

Pocketing the phone, he raised his fist to knock, but the doors opened automatically. Merlin blinked. "Alright, Mycroft. Be mysterious if it makes you feel better."

The hall was cool and dark on the inside. The tiles were slick and Merlin steps echoed off the walls. Hopefully this would be over quickly. With a sick feeling in his gut, Merlin moved softly through the hall. A small door was cracked open just barely on the other end. Light fractured from the other side. Did Mycroft expect him to go through?

Behind him, the front door shut with a soft 'click' and Merlin jumped. Right. No going back, then. Gulping down the metallic taste of fear in his throat, Merlin stepped forward quickly and opened the door wide.

It was a well-lit room, furnished in an elegant, English style complete with tea on a coffee table. There were several couches and armchairs and it was altogether a very quaint set up. However, there were no windows. A large mirror dominated part of the back wall. Merlin wasn't fooled. This was where Mycroft interrogated 'guests' and Merlin was certain there were far less pleasant rooms saved for his prisoners.

Mycroft himself stood by the mirror. He rubbed at a smear and his reflection met Merlin's eyes.

"Fascinating. It worked," he said, "Can't be sure with this sort of thing."

But his lips failed to move.

Merlin frowned. He stepped farther into the room and warily closed the door. It clicked, locked. How reassuring. "What do you want from me?"

Mycroft swiveled around and smiled tightly. Somehow he managed to do it without ever moving his lips upward. "Good. I hate it when they won't get to the point."

Merlin wasn't sure who 'they' were, and he didn't care.

Mycroft gestured to a chair. "Sit."

"I'd rather not, actually." Merlin couldn't let Mycroft get the upper hand in the situation. If he sat down, Mycroft would tower above him and the power would be entirely in his hands.

Shrugging, Mycroft eyed him carefully. He poured himself a cup of tea and sipped.

"Are you going to just stare at me, or do you actually have a reason for all of this?" Merlin gestured around the room, irritated.

Mycroft only smirked. It was cold, like Sherlock's when he knew something he shouldn't. "You don't sound surprised. To be kidnapped, I mean."

"If you know who I am, then you shouldn't expect to catch me off guard." That was an outrageous lie, but Merlin knew how to bend myth to his advantage.

Mycroft merely cocked his head. After a moment, he sat down.

Oh, good boy.

Usually, Merlin wasn't the manipulative type, there was nothing more pleasurable than making Mycroft Holmes to sit. Only when Mycroft set his tea on the table did Merlin step forward and take a seat across from the man. Now they were equal. See? He could play the Holmes' game.

After a moment, Merlin cleared his throat. He sat forward and pinched between his eyes. "Who do you think I am?"

"I know that you have the power to kill with a thought. I know that you are very, very old. And I know a whole lot more."

Merlin didn't reply for several seconds. He leaned forward. "You know, most people wouldn't kidnap someone, if they thought that that someone could kill them literally," He snapped his fingers, "Like that."

"I'm not most people."

"No. You're insane." He sat back with a huff. "Crazier than me and a heck of a lot more irritating. And believe me, I'm very irritating."

"I'm sure Sherlock would agree." Mycroft was scowling. He seemed to realize that Merlin was getting away with his interrogation. "I have questions and I hope that you will answer them."

"You 'hope'." Merlin snorted. "Fine. Whatever, ask away. I'm an open book." (He wasn't.)

With a small nod, Mycroft didn't waste any time. "Your name is not Morgan, as you told Mrs. Hudson?"  
"No."

"What is it?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "You already know."

"I want to hear you say it."

Carefully, Merlin regarded Mycroft. Holmes was poised, stiff despite his attempts to relax. Mycroft nervous?

"My name is Merlin and you have no business poking in my life. I haven't hurt anyone. To be honest, I haven't done anything of consequence for nearly two centuries. If you check with UNIT, they'll back me up."

Most people wouldn't believe a sentence like that but Mycroft did. Immediately. His eyes widened just slightly and an almost savage look of curiosity overcame the man. It was quickly repressed, but Merlin saw it and it made him shiver inside.

Mycroft was on to his next question before knew it.

"You said John Watson was your _uncle_?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I'm doing a bug sweep the moment I get back."

"Who is John Watson?"

Merlin shifted in his seat. He couldn't tell Mycroft the truth. "I lied."

"Obviously. Does John know you?"

"Sort of."

Vague. He'd keep it vague until Sherlock finally decided to show up and end this conversation.

"Really? That's quite interesting." Mycroft frowned and took out a file from nowhere. He opened it up on the table. "Because… you don't seem to know each other 'sort-of'."

Merlin stared at the file's contents. _I've gotten too cocky._ There were a few pictures of John, and then a few of him. One picture was taken from across from Bakers street. Merlin was sitting on John's bed, eyes downcast.

"What do you suppose a wizard is doing in John's bedroom, ey?" Mycroft murmured. "The odd thing is… you never went in, and you never came out, and yet we'd catch shots of you in the park or at the store or in John's room. Why's that, hmm?"

At each of Mycroft's words, the rock in Merlin's chest grew larger, grating his ribs. It hurt to breath. However, Mycroft continued, ignoring, or oblivious to the warlock's distress.

"It's enough to make any man curious, so I did another background check on John Watson. And you know what?" His tone was almost teasing now and Merlin wanted to punch him for it. "The strangest thing happened. Every time I looked up his history, I would suddenly get distracted. It was as if some sort of force didn't _want_ me to look. Now, isn't that suspicious?"

Merlin shivered. He'd put up a perception filter on John's fake history. It was just in case. Most people would look away and never notice that they were being _pushed_ away. But Mycroft was not most people.

"It took several days for me read John Watson's military history. Do you know what I found?"

Merlin was silent.

"It was bogus and obviously so, but then again, who needs a convincing alter-ego when you can _keep_ people from prying into it!" Mycroft sat back now and gathered up the papers that sealed the death of Merlin's newfound happiness. He could never go back to Sherlock now, not without Mycroft finding him. Why could he never have a bit of happiness?

Mycroft sighed. "And Sherlock being who he is, it was an easy thing to guess who you are."

Wait.

That didn't make sense.

"What?"

"I said, it was easy to-"

"-No." Merlin waved away his words. "What was that about Sherlock?"

Mycroft blinked. Long and slow. "Dear me, I do hope you know. Sherlock..." he paused and bit his lip. Mycroft stared pointedly at nothing for a moment and then his voice sounded clear in Merlin's mind.

"Arthur Pendragon…"

Merlin froze like a statue. What?

 _WHAT?_

Shock caused Merlin to sway. He broke the connection swiftly and Mycroft flinched.

"You knew?" Merlin whispered. "How could you possibly know?"

Mycroft shrugged. He rubbed his temples as if he was getting a headache and his eyes shot to a far corner of the room. A recording device was positioned there, certainly. "Sherlock had strange dreams when he was a child," he began, "As I grew older, I became involved with a… elite group of individuals, and I made… connections."

"Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

Frowning, Merlin's words came out with quiet venom. "And you _never_ thought to tell him?"

Mycroft clenched his jaw. "Can you imagine how he'd react if I did? He'd have laughed in my face."

A valid point.

"No…" Mycroft continued, voice impossibly low. No camera would be able to pick up his words. "It made far more sense to let you find him, as the legends said you would." His gaze snapped up to Merlin. "I never told them." he whispered. "They expect me to keep you here until you tell me who Arthur is."

The anonymous 'they' again. What was Mycroft involved in?

Merlin shifted uneasily.

 _What are you planning at, Mycroft?_

Mycroft flinched at the warlock's mental contact, but he recovered quickly. _If Sherlock is indeed Arthur, and you, John Watson, Merlin, Emrys, whoever you are, really are a warlock, then I'd rather not be on the other side._

Considering, Merlin leaned back and spoke the first thing that popped into his head. He needed to keep the pretense that they having an audible conversation so that no one would suspect a telepathic one. Mycroft caught on immediately and replied in kind.

 _I assume that your 'group of elite individuals' are not… good people._

 _I wouldn't go that far but, they certainly don't appear to be on_ your _side. If they're willing to lock you up (which they are) there is nothing keeping them from taking away Sherlock as well._

Ah. Now that made sense. Mycroft would do anything to keep his brother safe, even if he'd act like a jerk while doing so.

 _Do you believe we're the good guys?_ Merlin asked.

For a long time, Mycroft did not reply. He pursed his lips. _I think you try. And that has to count for something._

Merlin smiled softly. _Good man._

It was at this point that Sherlock decided to make an entrance. To say that he was angry would be a gross understatement. The fury in his voice was enough to make Merlin stiffen.

"Let me in _right now_ , Mycroft or I will _break down the door_!"

Merlin's eyebrow rose. Wow.

Mycroft sighed. "I'm afraid that's quite impossible, Sherlock! Go away."

Multiple bangs on the door later, the room grew quiet.

"How long are you keeping me here?" Merlin murmured as if he didn't know.

"Until you tell me who Arthur is," Mycroft replied with steel. His eyes flicked to the camera and back.

Okay. So he'd have to escape then. Nodding, Merlin stood quickly. Glancing at Mycroft, he proceeded to the door. Placing a hand on the handle, he willed it to unlock and quickly opened the door.

A startled, irate Sherlock stood on the other side, mouth open for another shout.

"Do be quiet, you idiot," Merlin whispered. With that, his eyes flashed and a gun habituating Mycroft's coat closet materialized in his pocket. Turning quickly, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pointed the gun at his head. "I seem to have procured a hostage," he said calmly. Sherlock faked resistance, and Merlin jabbed him with the gun. How convenient that they were all brilliant actors.

Mycroft did a miraculous job of appearing petrified. "Where did you get the gun?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Merlin shot back, granting himself a grin. "You have no proof other than your alligation that I can physically harm anyone using magic, or even that magic actually exists. You have no reason, then, to detain me. Until you do, I think I'll leave with my hostage."

Mycroft slowly stood. He feigned a disgusted scowl. "You think you're clever."

"Well…" Merlin thought for a moment and then shrugged. "Yes." Quickly, he backed out of the room, still pressing the gun too Sherlock's head.

They walked down the hall and out the door unharmed. A taxi was waiting outside. The driver raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. Carefully they crawled inside and only once they were driving away did Merlin uncoil the tension in his stomach. He sighed in relief and dropped the gun onto the seat between them.

The driver was still unfazed. _Need to get that guy's name. Could be useful._

"You should have let me kill him," Sherlock muttered angrily.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I just saved our backsides. A little of gratitude would be nice. Good timing, by the way."

Sherlock wasn't listening, still seething. "The _nerve_. How _dare he_ try and-"

Merlin sighed. Brothers… "Sherlock."

" _What_?" Ice blue eyes turning to his friend, Sherlock's anger softened. He huffed and stared moodily at the back of the seat.

"He'll leave us alone now," Merlin murmured. He sat up and momentarily dulled the driver's hearing so that he wouldn't hear their conversation. "He can't take me without sacrificing you."

As Merlin's words registered, Sherlock stilled and turned to look at him. "He… knows?"

"That you're Arthur? Yeah."

Wrinkling his nose distastefully, Sherlock picked at a thread on his pants. His lips settled into a tight straight line. "This isn't going to turn out well. His curiosity is monumental."

Afraid he'd been upset, Merlin nudged his shoulder. The detective didn't look up. "Hey," Merlin murmured almost playfully, "don't jinx it."

Sherlock shrugged, but he finally caught his friend's gaze once more and a small smile lifted his lips. Merlin almost saw the prince beneath the detective. "I don't believe in destiny," he said with a smirk.

Merlin snorted. His throat was raw from his cold and his head fell back tiredly against the seat. "Cheeky."

Later, only the London night witnessed two men, one dark and tall, the other shorter and blonde, walking along a pond and sit down on a rickety bench. The two men spoke in whispers and then the dark one said something funny because the bright man let out a laugh.

There was no one to see the bright flashes in the bright man's eyes, or the awe in the dark one's.

Occasional CTV cameras dotted lampposts and buildings but oddly enough, that night they were all on a loop.

 _ **AN: Super sorry about that weird formatting. Thanks to those who informed me. Hopefully it's all fixed now. I think this fic will have one more chapter but who knows... I'm SO changeable.**_

 _ **Please leave a review:))**_


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